What Alisa Finds There

Raise it High

Don't we just love symbols? Something easily identified, standing in for a different entity, one that is larger and unwieldy when put into words. They can sum up the familiar, and with them, we can construct a world of reflected identity. They can remind us of who we are, and they may inform others about us, too.

It might be a logo. Maybe a cross. A letter, perhaps. Often, too, it is a flag, and this past Saturday, Mexico celebrated its own. That green, white and red banner with the country's coat of arms in the center, the flag we know today is one of the most recognizable symbols of Mexico. Some might say that the Virgin of Guadalupe finds herself as a deeper, more visceral symbol of the country, and she herself even found herself on early Mexican flags--a symbol of those who fought for independence from Spain.

But for me, the flag seen these days over landmarks and city plazas--reaching dimensions of monumental size--and sometimes found in miniature, suction-cupped to windshields, carries a symbol that holds meaning even for me; someone not born to pledge allegiance to what it means.

It's that eagle in the center, wings outspread, the serpent in its teeth and talons, atop the cactus in a small, lacustrine island. It is a symbol not only of Mexico, or of the Mexica (Aztec) people, who upon seeing it as a completion of prophecy, knew where they were to call home. It can also mean something for so many; a symbol of destiny connected with a sense of place.

Other symbols of Mexico were present on Saturday for us, even if Patricio and I don't have a Mexican flag to our name. The morning was spent preparing for a slow afternoon of paella, shrimp stew, opened bottles and sunshine, and the welcoming into our home of the most indisputable of Mexican symbols that I know--the cherished togetherness of family.

Flag day held its own meaning for me on Saturday, having nothing to do with military marches or a particular affinity with red, white or green. Now part of a family, I'm a part of Mexico, too. And that eagle in the coat of arms sure does speak to me of an identity somehow Mexican, of a destiny all my own, connected with a sense of place.

A recommended trip outside Mexico City, especially during the week when the crowds aren't part of the scene. It was a perfect location to talk of books, or anything for that matter--as in Carroll's own "Looking Glass," of shoes and ships and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings.

Patricio and I moved into our first house right after Thanksgiving, 2005. His cousin, Pepe Torrijos, among other knowedgeable and skilled friends and family, helped us transform it into our cozy home over the course of the autumn months. Here are a few photos of chez Uribe, on the northern edge of Mexico City. The neighborhood is called Los Manantiales," or "the springs," and compared with many urban neighborhoods, it's quiet and slow, and almost everyone knows and looks out for each other. It's a wonderful place to begin our life together.

My previous conception of fireworks exploded in Tultepec, the remaining bits forming a newer, brighter and far more expansive idea of what pyrotechnics can be. These photos spark bright memories for me, and the imagination of anyone who tries filling in the unphotographed blanks.

Our first foray into carne asada as a couple, we spent a late Friday afternoon firing up the brand new anafre and white-hot parrilla. Countless tacos and a baked potato later, all we could do was sit and bask in our grill-out glory.